Page:Rudyard Kipling's verse - Inclusive Edition 1885-1918.djvu/197

Rh  The fountain in the desert, The cistern in the waste, The bread we ate in secret, The cup we spilled in haste.

Now call I to my Captains— For council fly the sign, Now leap their zealous galleys, Twelve-oared, across the brine. To me the straiter prison, To me the heavier chain— To me Diego Valdez, High Admiral of Spain!





sent our little Cupids all ashore— They were frightened, they were tired, they were cold: Our sails of silk and purple go to store, And we’ve cut away our mast of beaten gold (Foul weather!) Oh ’tis hemp and singing pine for to stand against the brine, But Love he is our master as of old!

The sea has shorn our galleries away, The salt has soiled our gilding past remede; Our paint is flaked and blistered by the spray, Our sides are half a fathom furred in weed (Foul weather!) And the Doves of Venus fled and the petrels came instead, But Love he was our master at our need! 